


Divine Narcotic

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breathplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Painplay, Shotgunning, Tentabulges, Xeno, generally weird stuff okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Utterly plotless, delicious MeuLoz smut.<br/>Is it sex? Is it a religious experience? To which the subjugglator and the disciple answer, why not both?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine Narcotic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [proserpinasacra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/proserpinasacra/gifts).



> This smut is dedicated to proserpinasacra, who stayed up until 3 listening to me liveblog writing the smut I wrote for her.

A shaft of moonslight shattered against the open window, throwing soft shades of green and purple all over the kitchen. The gentle rays washed over the faded ceramic and lapped at the edges of the frayed carpet of the living room. The sound of the drain tiredly guzzling a steady stream of water was louder than the observation casket, but the highblood sitting perfectly still in a beaten armchair didn’t seem to mind.

A young troll girl stood at the sink, scrubbing at plates with a thin sponge. She wore a short white dress with thin straps and no bra, her soft scrubbed gray skin contrasting oddly with the unruly tumble of black hair that curled, kinked, and twisted without restraint all the way down to her butt. She hummed a tune she couldn’t hear and didn’t seem to be aware of the particle disintegrator running in the drain. There was blood under her nails that wasn’t hers and the faint smell of trees and fresh water about her, and her soft appearance belied the spirit and body of an apex predator.

In sharp contrast, the highblood seemed to slice the darkness even in his sedentary position, every harsh joint and smear of black and white face paint exacerbated by the skintight skeleton suit he wore. His muscles were the tight threads of a religious ascetic, but he radiated the aura of a serpent preparing to strike more than that of a monk at peace. His hair was a convoluted spatial nightmare, and he smelled like galactic cancer and stardust.

Rough, tight stitches bound his lips together, the area around them scarred from infections after the initial sewing. Kurloz Makara would never speak again with his tongue, but the stitches were his form of painful penance, the offering of a voiceless prophet who smelled like blood and ashes. The muted moonslight threw purple onto his eyes, opened wide and a darker indigo than the suggestions of color pressed on him. His gaze turned slowly from the casket to the girl in the kitchen.

She  finished washing the last breakfast dish, placed it on the rack to dry, and turned to the living room, mouth open to address him. But her prophet had vanished from his perch, with not even an indent in the battered cushion to show that he’d ever been there. She turned her head around slowly, and there he was, looming almost six inches over her with a grin like the grim skulls of the Mirthful Messiahs, blood dripping from the pulled stitches.

Meulin felt a single hand on her hip, as thin as famine and large enough to fit snugly over the throat of the average barkbeast. She shivered at the cool oppression of that hand as it stroked its way along her curves, spreading rock solid arousal through her. But that could also have been the new voice in the back of her head, whispering in that smokescratch voice that was still only the picked-clean skeleton of what it had once been, saying **hush little kittybitch** in sixteen flashing colors.

His hand skittered over her unbound breasts, rough fingertips dragging the smooth material of the dress into pleasant friction, and Meulin purred under her breath, leaning back into his grasp. **were you playing with this, kittybitch?** And he’s the only one who could make that a term of endearment, but regardless, she doesn’t want to focus her half-lidded eyes on the object he’s referring to.

It’s only after she hears the scrape of metal on metal and feels her dress tugged around her midsection that she realizes he’s taking a kitchen knife to her clothing. Of course there’s the undercurrent of **?** and she lets her feelings of comfort and trust and arousal answer the question of her consent through the mental link they share. He opens her dress just above the piercing between her lower abdominals, slicing the flesh just slightly, watching a bead of olive blood form at the end of the cut. He moves his unarmed hand and runs it across the mark, gathers the bead as if it would shatter, transient as light, and brings his hand to his mouth, pushing his finger painfully past the stitches.

The pain coaxed a single sympathetic tear from his eye, and it streaked his face paint and dropped onto Meulin’s shoulder. Kurloz was a spectre, tears sliding down his face even as his bloody smile widened, and he was tangentially aware of Meulin’s bulge uncoiling, felt the shuddering of her hips as it strained against the only underwear she had on. He pulled up her dress to watch her cheeks flush.

He slipped the knife into her panties and twisted it, putting the edge against the soft fabric, and twitched his hand, relishing the sharp tear and the soft exhalation from the mouth of his matesprit, never mind another ruined pair of underclothing because in the game they played in four quadrants, there was never time to worry about yesternight, even if it was literally ten seconds ago.

Kurloz took his free hand and slid it down past the thick pubic hair between her legs, gripping her bulge even as it made efforts to curl around his fingers. Using his thumb to rub against the slightly ribbed underside, he began stroking it slowly, exaggerating the slick noises of the lubricant it secreted and his body shook with silent laughter at how she whined and squirmed under his touch.

The cold knife’s tip cut a strap of Meulin’s dress off with no preamble, and her composure fell apart like the garment as he traced her nipples with the blade, even as her clothes stayed on only by wishful thinking. Abruptly, she found herself being pulled back, her butt flush with Kurloz’s groin and her head tucked underneath his neck. His own bulge, substantially larger than hers in every dimension, thrashed in the confines of the suit, but if he had any complaint he did not project it.

Meulin let herself grind against him, hoping to give back a fraction of what he was giving her, and moved one arm to stroke at the outside of her nook, less easily pleased than the bulge Kurloz was manipulating. She keened without shame or thought, as open and free as the beasts she slew, and leaned her head back as the sheer foreignness of the situation brought her closer to climax, buckets unavailable as usual but of course never used.

And then both his touch and his thoughts vanished. Meulin’s dress, without the support of two close-pressed bodies, fell off looking more like a collection of white rags,  leaving her naked and barefoot in the kitchen. The knife sank into the tile floor as if it had been shot from a gun. Kurloz sat in the armchair again, legs folded like origami, smoking a joint through rapidly coagulating blood and tightly sealed lips. He turned to Meulin and blew a <3< at her in smoke, smiling widely. Her bulge dripped onto the kitchen floor.

She flew across the distance between them snarling and hissing, launched into a flying tackle halfway there, and caught him the shoulders, taking him down to the floor and pinning him down. Adjusting to put her hot crotch over his covered one, she plucked the weed from between his lips, the flavor of the joint mixing with that of his blood, and took a long drag, then leaned down and shared the smoke with him in an open mouthed kiss, scorching his lungs. He exhaled the fumes through his nose and shook again with his ceaseless laughter. She took and shared a few more hits, just to watch the smoke curl out from his mouth and out of his nostrils, and to taste blood and smoke and saliva when she slipped her tongue between his lips.

Meulin took the joint into her mouth, placed her fingers on his suit, gripped tight, and tore upward, exposing his half-starved ribs. All true prophets labored in the desert, and he was no exception, lost in hunger and visions even in the hive of a huntress. She made short work of his clothes and smiled at his bulge, thicker than hers by a factor of three and long enough to reach any spot she could care to mention, dripping with rich purple. She leaned down to put her mouth near it, watched his chest rise with anticipation...and pressed the hot tip of the joint into his thigh, relishing how his body tensed with the pain, but his bulge strained with arousal.

She shimmied off of him, crouched between his legs, gripped his bulge in one hand, licking the lubricant it produced off the side, instantly giddy from the heady taste of it, and gave it a sloppy kiss, bright eyes open and locked on his. Kurloz’s bulge was massive, the pillar of a subjugglator whose sexuality was both drug and weapon, and both its taste and texture were meant to maximize both uses. She pressed the hot tip to him again, wondering idly if his skin would melt and knowing it wouldn’t, and took the tip of his bulge into her mouth. Unlike her, he had perfect control over its movements, so there was no telling what it might do.

It remained cooperative, though, as she swept down, sucking and licking indiscriminately and leaving angry purple circles all over Kurloz’s legs and lower chest. She tucked as much of her hair as possible behind one ear and took as much of the girth as she could into her mouth, gagging slightly—which is when the prophet blasphemed, twisting his bulge past the point where Meulin could breathe around it, deep into her throat so lubricant filled every passage she could possibly respire through. A thin trickle of purple liquid dripped from each of her nostrils.

The only sign that Kurloz was coming was the widening of his grin, and then the trickes became a stream, copious amounts of genetic material pumping their way into Meulin’s stomach, then into her mouth and over her face and chest as Kurloz pulled out of her. She gasped as a cascade of come poured from her open mouth, coating her breasts and pooling between her abs. Just out of spite, she leaned up and kissed him furiously, sharing the fluid between them like smoke from the forgotten joint scorching the  carpet next to them.

She scooted back over his chest, leaving a streak of warm olive from her dripping bulge and nook, raised herself up on hard thighs, and guided his bulge to her nook, smiling at the nonsense garble **hOnK motherfucker THE MESSIAHS ARE AWAKE** and crowed a hymn of praise to his/their god, eyes flashing as he chucklevoodoo’d her and she dropped herself down on his crotch at his bulge screwed into her tight nook, producing that oh-so-sweet stretching pleasure she’d come to crave between the psychedelic sensation of mind control.

She felt her body move without her direction, furiously jerking her neglected bulge for Kurloz’s entertainment, but it felt too good for her to ever complain, because **?** always came the silent request for her to allow this and she always knew no matter what that he would never do this if in some dismal corner of her mind she held the tiniest doubt.

As it was her bloodpusher pumped furiously, filled with terror and arousal by the powers of the mirthful caste, and Kurloz seemed both nightmare and lover, too large and terrifying for a quadrant, but his bulge inside her felt like a thousand religious epiphanies and it was a divine narcotic, selfish and all-consuming, but once she found herself in its thrall again there was no other choice but to worship when it hit _that one fucking spot_ of perfect glee inside her, and the whispers of the damned pushed up inside her thinkpan.

Kurloz’s hands flitted up to her firm buttocks as together they bounced her hard body off of his, sure to bruise both of them, and she leaned over to grab his nipples and twist viciously, knowing that the pain would get him off as it always did, knowing he would thank her for the action he was making her take, feeling as always part of a greater force than two sweaty bodies on the threadbare carpet floor of a small hive on the bad side of Beforus, gasping and crying out, prostrate before things no troll could possibly understand.

Meulin ground her hips against the harsh planed of his pubic bones and threw her head back, eyes closed, and saw the shadow of an open skull, a red cheek, shifting technicolor eyes, and she came like the soul of the messiah ascending to heaven, like a wandering prophet finding enlightenment in the moon on the water, like a shepherd before a host of high angels; she came like a sea god in storm, like the inexorable destruction of rage and the overwhelming power of the heart. She came like a small troll, intoxicated beyond belief and aroused beyond reckoning, shuddering on the bulge of her beloved as she pailed over his chest in a flood of olive, seeing the shadows between his bones.

Kurloz pressed his hips up and filled her nook with **honk HONK motherfuckers** and purple wrath, and he could feel the sound welling up in his throat, the sound that had deafened her once and would kill her if he was not careful, and he bit his lip so hard blood spilled over his chin, and dug his nails into her thigh until he felt her seedflap close around the genetic material he’d deposited inside her and she worked her way off of his bulge slowly, hissing at the sensation of emptiness and stroking the painting of bruises.  Even though her blood was only one color, somehow the variety pleased him, and he smiled at her, even as her rough little tongue began to clean him up, and then herself.

They curled up in the ruins of a latex skeleton suit together, sharing the blissful togetherness of religious fanatics and lovers and prophets in one, and went to sleep with **flushed for you** the only thought between them.

 


End file.
